


Why Mycroft?

by Unovis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-07
Updated: 2011-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:14:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unovis/pseuds/Unovis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade expected questions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why Mycroft?

*

  
“None of your business,” Lestrade said. “And you can’t actually read minds, so stop staring.” Glaring, not staring, was what Sherlock was doing, with laser intensity and all the considerable ill-will he could muster.  
  
“Did he offer you money?”  
  
“Yes, Sherlock. Now I’m his kept boy, I can retire from the force. Cheers for the introduction.”  
  
“I thought you had more sense. Or taste.”  
  
“Just enough of both.”  
  
“Oh, sex,” spat the detective. “Sex is cheap.”  
  
“Not with you, it hasn’t been. You’re a pricey fuck, all told.”  
  
“I’m better than he is.”  
  
“Well, now you’re sounding desperate.” Lestrade had never seen him look like this. Frustrated, angry, bristling with affront. Not like they meant much to each other in bed, beyond a bruising good bone-rattle on occasion, and not like he hadn’t been dismissed out of hand when John Bloody Watson appeared. Not like they were even friends, though he couldn’t say what the term meant to Sherlock. God help him, he’d liked the sex well enough, but he liked the man more, between the jabs and rants.  
  
“He runs to fat. Sprints to it; you’ll be buried in blubber and intrigue by Boxing Day.”  
  
“Don’t cry, son. You’ll always be family.” He ducked. “You throw like a girl.” The second mug, empty this time, chipped the doorframe by his knee. Right, time he was off.  
  


***

  
  
“Do you really care?”  
  
The doctor wrinkled his brow. Not a bad looking man at all, for his type. “Yes? I have to live with the fallout. And I can’t imagine…”  
  
“Careful.”  
  
“Can’t imagine working with anyone else at the Met. We’d regret your sudden demise. Explosion. Fall from the edge of the earth.”  
  
“Taking note of that ‘we.’ Mycroft doesn’t dine on human flesh.”  
  
“As close as may be. He is a Holmes.” As if he needed reminding. As if Sherlock weren’t far worse; though John’s preference was as clear as his own. “He’s the _dangerous_ Holmes.” That made Lestrade smile.  
  
“Let the two of them sort it out. I’m fine.”   
  
John’s forehead was still disturbed, his eyes half closed. “Give me one good thing. I’ll believe you, I promise.”  
  
Lestrade had a list. Lists. He’d been compiling them for months now. “If you don’t repeat anything I say to your manic half.”  
  
“I swear on our resident skull.”  
  
“He has a name.”  
  
“Blocked it out, thank you very much. I won’t tell Sherlock.”  
  
When he heard the first and best reason, the thing that had captured Lestrade’s fancy from the beginning, John pursed his lips and nodded. Lestrade thought possibly he’d understood. Sherlock wouldn’t, when John told him.  
  


***

  
“Fishing for compliments?”  
  
Mycroft plumped the small needlework cushion and replaced it at the proper angle behind his back. (Buying time.) “Heaven forfend. Render unto the diplomats the coin of their realm. I had hoped,” he said, carefully, reaching for his cup and saucer, “for a dab of fact.” He sipped. “A sprat, even.”  
  
“Sprat.” Lestrade was more comfortable talking with Mycroft in his own ratty home, on his own Lestrade-shaped couch, an idiosyncrasy that Mycroft indulged as often as possible. Right now, Lestrade was settled into one corner of the couch, angled so he could see Mycroft’s face. He liked to keep him in view. Mycroft by preference kept himself within touching distance of Lestrade. So he could indulge, if necessary. If desired. Lestrade was, against all kinds of sense, so _fond_ of him. “Jack Spratt could eat no fat.” He leaned forward and touched the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. Just the corner, where, fastidious as he was, a small smear of grease gleamed. A trace from the thin slice of brown bread and butter he’d eaten with his tea. Lestrade had buttered his bread, with French salted butter from his grandmother’s Christmas parcel.  
  
“Because you love to eat,” he said. _Because a love of food is a love of life. Because you love to kiss me. Because you have, on your immaculate face, in the corner of your perfectly controlled mouth, a tiny sheen of butter. For me to lick away.  
_

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted as a gift for turante in 221b_slash_fest on LJ December 27 2010


End file.
